


delicate

by awesomeaislin



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Angst, Falling In Love, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomeaislin/pseuds/awesomeaislin
Summary: Baz's career is over. The world has decided he's finally stepped too far out of line. He's out of music. In spite of it all, he finds something real.“Snow,” I say.“Pitch,” He laughs. “Would it kill me to call me by my name?”“Snow is your name.”“You’re a git,” He says.“So say all the magazines.”“Well I’m sure my quote on it wouldn’t be worth much,” He says. “Dear the Daily Mail, I’m sure you would love to know, Basilton Pitch once threw me down the stairs.”
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 3
Kudos: 151





	delicate

**Author's Note:**

> As with everything I do, this is vaguely based on Taylor Swift. Obviously it's not like a real story, but I had a good time writing it. I was thinking about what it would mean to fall in love with someone in the worst moment of your life. To lose everything and then find something better than it all.

“RIP Baz Pitch: buried by Davy Mage on 18 July. Or so those gleefully celebrating the supposed downfall of megastar Pitch want the obituary to go.”

“Sure, Baz Pitch has reached the top but has he done some sketchy things to get there?”

“Serial dater Basil Pitch involved in yet another dramatic public breakup. Finally found that rebounding never goes well?”

“Has Baz Pitch ruined his career over some petty feud?”

“Father,” I interrupted before he can get any further. He could spend the next several hours reading the articles. But it isn’t going to change anything. It’s over. My career is over. 

I’ve been in the public eye since I was 15 years old. My mother was famous, but I was largely shielded from that until I decided to start making music. And It’s never been totally positive coverage. There were arguments and feuds and backlash. But this is different. 

It’s the death of my reputation. It’s the death of me. 

“You aren’t taking this seriously enough, Basilton,” He says. He’s wrong. I’m taking this plenty serious. I think I may be the only one taking this for what it is. “We can take this back. We just need to show that you’re...not what they say you are.”

“It doesn’t matter what I say,” I argue. 

“Basil, we’ve been through these things before we can turn this around,” He says. He hasn’t looked up from his phone since this whole thing started. He switches between refreshing the news and frantically emailing various agents and lawyers. 

He’s already had my entire instagram erased and comments disabled on my music videos. 

“There is no turning this around,” I say. “It’s over. My career is over. I’m done.”

The odd thing about this is that I didn’t think it would be that bad while it was happening. Another feud with Davy Mage. That asshole has been against me since the beginning. Upstaging me at every event, slamming me to different media outlets, spreading rumors and lies about me. 

Normally my father smooths things over with photo ops and organized gift baskets from Davy. But it’s not going to happen this time. This time it’s everyone. Everyone believes him. Everyone is against me. And I played right into his hands. 

He asked if he could write a song that included my name and I said yes because I was told to say yes. Then he released it, and it was offensive to put it mildly. And the video was worse. So I publicly denounced the video and the song and argued against it. I said I wasn’t aware the song would be so bad and nothing was ran by me. 

He then leaked an illegal recording of me saying yes to the song and made it sound like I knew exactly what I was getting into. 

My life has been all snake emojis and insults since then. It’s been about a month. It hasn’t died down yet. 

I broke up with my boyfriend and he got in on it. Telling the crowds that I had lied about not writing his new song. Telling people I was a manipulative sociopath. #BazBitch was trending worldwide. 

In my lowest moments, I started dating Gareth. I looked passed his awful belt buckle, and I thought maybe if I just threw myself into a relationship things would get better. I thought maybe hitting rock bottom would be bearable if I could drag someone down with me. 

I was wrong. Nothing good starts in a getaway car. Now he hates me too, but at least he’s been civil about it. 

I can’t go outside anymore. 

I can’t go to the gym. 

I can’t walk my dog. 

I can’t open the windows. 

It’s the end. 

That’s the only thing I’m sure of. 

“We’ll just wait for things to cool down, and then we’ll come back. Things will cool down,” Father promises. 

I don’t know why he’s insisting on this. It’s not like we need the money. It’s not like any of us can enjoy this. It’s probably about my mother. 

“Okay,” I say. 

It’s not like there’s any arguing. But I can’t come back. 

I don’t think there’s any music left in me. 

“We’ll go home to Watford while we wait for this to cool down. We’ll keep a low profile. It’s not like there are any reporter’s in Watford anyway. The girls will be thrilled to see you.”

“Okay,” I say. 

He’s right. My sisters are thrilled to see me. 

They drag me throughout the house from room to room and make me play with dolls and braid their hair. 

They try to get me to sing a song, but I can’t. 

I distract them instead with making cookies. 

Now I’ve been trapped here for two weeks. I haven’t left the house once. Father says that I have to be careful. He says I can’t risk going out right now. The press could know to look for me here. 

But I’m going crazy. 

This is a big house, but it’s still a jail. 

I sneak a peek out the window. The rest of my family is out in the garden having tea. The girls are running around doing cartwheels and dancing. My father is looking at his phone. And my stepmother is reading a book. 

I grab a pair of sunglasses and an old headscarf that used to belong to my mother. 

I leave through the front door. 

It’s odd walking around this town. 

I used to belong here, but I don’t anymore. 

I was the valedictorian our senior year and now I’m just a 28 year old pariah. I wonder what my life would be like if I’d stayed? If I’d gone to uni. I would have loved to go to uni. 

I loved school. I know alot of people talk about hating school, but there’s just something special about being able to spend a portion of your life where everything revolves around learning. And I was very good at school. 

But back then it was a choice, music or school, and it seemed silly to put off my dreams for another three years when I already had so many songs to give the world. Back then I was optimistic about how the world would react to my diary. 

Maybe if I’d gone, I’d be able to write songs now. 

Watford is quiet. (Tiny towns like this are always quiet.) 

I’m walking on the outskirts by the fields. Even though I’ve snuck out, I don’t actually want to get caught out here. If I walked a little further I’d be at the seaside, but there might be people out there, so I turn right to circle back to the house. If I’m gone too long Father will notice I’m gone. 

He still thinks we can salvage this. He thinks that some tweet or some statement will fix things. He doesn’t understand. I have no music left in me. There’s nothing good left. 

“Baz?” A voice calls. 

I’d know that voice anywhere. Simon Snow. 

I keep walking. I don’t have the time to deal with Simon Snow and his perfect face and his perfect voice and his perfect morals. I don’t want a lecture about everything I’ve done wrong. And why I deserve what is happening. I already know. I don’t need a lecture. 

Simon and I didn’t get along during school. We fought and fought. He broke my nose at one point. I pushed him down the stairs. 

Around fifth year, I realized I was hopelessly in love with him. 

I don’t have time for this. I have to get home. 

But Snow has never been one to just live and let live, so he chases after me. “Baz!” He shouts. 

“Shut up!” I hiss. “Someone could hear you!”

“Who?” He asks stupidly. “There are only goats out here. What are you doing here?”  
I sigh. 

Stupid questions do not deserve answers. 

“Why are you wearing that?” He asks. 

I roll my eyes even though he won't be able to see it passed my glasses. 

“Hey wait,” He says. There’s something in his tone that’s different. “Look, I don’t live in a bubble. Everyone’s been talking about you, and, now that you’re here, I just wanted to...”

“What?” I snap. “You just wanted to what? Make fun of me? Tell me you always knew that I would mess it all up? Take a picture and sell it to the press? What Snow? There’s nothing you could say that could make this any worse. So what?”

“No,” He growls. “I wanted to ask if you were okay.”

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” He repeats like I’m the stupid one. Like I’m the one who barely passed high school. 

Nobody has asked me that. Not my father. Not Daphne. Not any of my “friends”. No one. 

I don’t know how to answer. 

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. 

“I know we haven’t...gotten along,” He says. “But we’re not 15 anymore. And if you need someone to talk to...Well you can call me.”

“I don’t have your number?” 

I don’t even have my phone. It’s sitting in my room untouched. There’s no point even looking at it anymore. 

“Well, then give me yours, and I’ll call you,” He says. I forgot how much of a hero Simon Snow is. It’s odd that an orphan would have such a habit of saving people. He should really focus on himself. He’s dressed abysmally. And, yet, I’m his charity case. 

“Why?” I ask. 

“I just thought you’d appreciate someone to talk to, look if you don’t want it...”

“No, why?” I ask again. 

He swallows. He has the longest neck and the showiest swallow I’ve ever seen. 

His ordinary, boring blue eyes meet mine. 

“Because no one deserves to be completely shut off.”

I give him my number and he walks me back to my house in silence. 

My father did notice I was gone, but he doesn’t shout at me for it. He asks if I was seen, and I tell him no. He sighs and leaves. 

I take dinner in my room. 

I think of nothing but Simon Snow. 

He’s still a bull in a china shop. All brute strength and no subtlety. He’s still a sight to behold.

Maybe it’s just in my dna to fall for him. Or maybe I’ve just fallen so low that he’s the one reminder of a life before this chaos. Maybe I’m just an obsessed fool. 

He’s changed though. He’s rounded off at the edges. He looks happy. He didn’t stumble over his words. I used to love making him stumble over his words. 

I try not to hover over my phone waiting for him to call. Hovering over my phone is probably a bad idea anyway. 

I sit at my piano instead and try to play something. Something I wrote years ago. (Ironically about Simon Snow) But there just isn’t anything there. It doesn’t sound right. 

When my phone rings, I pick it up without looking. 

“Snow,” I say. 

“Pitch,” He laughs. “Would it kill me to call me by my name?”

“Snow is your name.”

“You’re a git,” He says. 

“So say all the magazines.”

“Well I’m sure my quote on it wouldn’t be worth much,” He says. “Dear the Daily Mail, I’m sure you would love to know, Basilton Pitch once threw me down the stairs.”

“Why stop there?” I say. “Why not tell them I burned down our school and murdered your dog. They’d believe it.”

It’s odd, but this doesn’t feel much different than our old rivalry. There’s just no bite now. Just Snow and I being shitheads until the other laughs. It’s oddly nice. 

Eventually it peters out, and he says, “Do you want to go get a pint?”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, I forgot.” He says. “Do you really think the paparazzi are lurking in Watford? What are they hiding out in the fields? Maybe they’re intently following a story about Keris’ missing cat?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I admit. “My father thinks they might be. So I’m stuck. I wasn’t really meant to leave earlier.”

“You’re nearly 30, Baz,” He says. 

I scoff. 

“You are!”

“Do not make me out to be middle aged, Snow,” I laugh. “I’m hardly a grown up. My father manages everything.”

“You’re going to have to face it eventually,” He says. “We’re old and boring.”

“I’m hardly boring,” I complain. “I am the subject of an international public shaming!”

“And yet you’re still just holed up in your house,” He snaps. “It’s not like it can get much worse for you.”

“Goodnight, Snow.”

I hang up before he can bluster through anything else. 

This was a mistake. 

I’m reading a book when my phone rings again. I almost don’t answer it. I don’t want to hear it. (But I do)

“Snow,” I answer because I’m weak. 

“Come to the back door,” He whispers. 

“What?”

“Baz!” He growls. (He has an excellent growl. I’d like to put that into a song. I’d make him a musical marvel.) “Come to the back door.”

I rush down the stairs in spite of myself and open the back door, and there he is: grinning at me, holding two pints of guinness. 

I grin back. 

“You said you couldn’t come out,” He reminds me. 

“So you brought the pub to me?” I tease. I lead him back to my room careful not to wake anyone. 

He giggles when he sees my room. “I’m sorry,” He says. “But how many gargoyles does one bed need? And why is it so tall? And are there no other colors? Is red and black it?”

I roll my eyes at him, and sit with my back against the end of my bed in front of the fire. It’s the warmest place in the room. He sits beside me without hesitating. 

I don’t know why he’s here. Why he’s spending time with me. He should be...anywhere else. No one should be around me anymore. 

I mean I know he’s heard things about me. And if it ever gets out that he was here...well, that would be it for him. He’d never get left alone. 

And that’s the worst part of all of this. No one will ever really see me again. Maybe they’ll get a glimpse of something. Maybe they’ll think they see it. But from now on everything will be one step behind my reputation. 

Even if I did go back to music, everything I did would be set in reference to this. If I write a love song, they’ll talk about it differently. It won’t be love. It will be love in spite. 

So it’s over. 

“Stop it,” He says. 

“Stop what?” 

“Thinking.”

“It’s not possible,” I say. 

“It is,” He says. “I do it all the time.”

“That would explain why you’re so perpetually stupid.” 

He shoves me, but I can tell he’s laughing a little. His cheeks are a lovely shade of pink. 

“Why are you here?” I ask him again. 

“I’m here to bring you a drink,” He gestures at my glass, and then takes a sip of his own. 

“I know,” I say. “But why? And don’t say it’s out of pity. If this is out of pity I want you to leave.”

“I don’t pity you.” He says. “You’re one of the biggest musicians in the world. You hardly need my pity.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because I want to be,” He says. “It sounds stupid because we spent all of school fighting, and I know you hate me and everything, but it’s been fun hasn’t it? Today? I mean I know you’re a complete asshole, and you can be hard to get along with, and yeah I have no regrets about breaking your nose, but it’s been fun.”

“And you aren’t put off by the fact that everyone thinks I’m a complete monster,” I ask just to punish myself. 

“You aren’t a monster, Baz,” He rolls his eyes. 

“You don’t even know what happened,” I say. 

“It doesn’t matter what happened or didn’t happen,” He says seriously. “I know you and I know you aren’t a monster.” 

I hold back tears. I stare at the fire very intensely. 

“I’m never going to be able to go out in public again,” I say, and I’m embarrassed that my voice cracks. “No one is ever going to see me again, they’re just going to see this scandal. My father can’t even look at me. I’ll never go on stage again. Or write a song. Or...”

“Hey,” He says. “That’s not true. This will change. You are not the opinion of people who have never even met you.”

“But you don’t get it!” I insist. “Everything I am, I am because of music. And I don’t know who I am without it. I don’t know who I would be if I wasn’t a musician.”

“You’re still you,” He shrugs. “Maybe this is your chance to figure out who you are if you aren’t Baz Pitch, biggest superstar in the world.”

“When the fuck did you get wise?” I grumble. “What happened to Simon ‘eats-full-sticks-of-butter’ Snow?”

“Why are they mutually exclusive?” He asks, and he shoves me again. “Listen, can I stay here tonight. It’s too late to walk home.”

I nod at the sofa. “It’s all yours.”

“No way!” He complains. “Your bed is gigantic. You can share.”

“Snow,” I warn. 

“Dear Daily Mail, alleged terrible person Baz Pitch will not even share his bed to his poor friend who went out in the rain just to get him a drink,” He mimes typing an email. “Seriously, Baz, please? I have to work in the morning.”

“Fine,” I roll my eyes. As if the idea isn’t torture. As if I won’t spend the entire night just watching him. 

I get ready for bed, and by the time I’m done he’s found one of my sweatshirts to sleep in. It does something unimaginable to my stomach. Simon Snow, in my bed, in my sweatshirt, and a pair of pants. I want to die. 

I lie down without saying anything, I turn off the lights and roll to face the wall. 

He doesn’t say anything, and I wait until his breathing evens out. 

“I see you,” He says just as I think he’s fallen asleep. “Even if no one else does, I see you.” 

Evidently, he doesn’t expect a response because he turns over and finally does go to sleep. 

I can’t for the life of me figure out what it means. 

When I wake up, Snow is gone. 

I wonder what would feel worse: this or the awkward stumbling morning we were bound to have. 

I find a note left on the pillow he slept on. 

Had to get to work, see you tonight? 

I text him immediately. 

BP 12:01pm: _What makes you assume I’m free tonight?_

SS 12:03pm: _Oh I don’t know the fact that u know no one else here, spend every day alone, and have no remaining friends?_

SS 12:04pm: _(Are you only waking up now? It’s midday.)_

BP 12:05pm: _You know I can’t come out. Someone might see._

I go about getting ready for the day while I wait for him to respond. He must be on his lunch break or something. It occurs to me I never asked what his job was. I can’t imagine him in a desk job. He’s much too untamed for that. 

When I go down to the kitchen to find something to eat, my father is sitting at the dining room table on his phone. He glances up at me warily. 

“You had company last night,” He says. It’s not a question. 

“Yes,” I agree. There’s no point hiding it. I can’t imagine Snow made the most graceful exit from my house. He’s a disaster after all. 

“Basilton,” He sighs. “You can’t afford to dawdle on some meaningless relationship right now. You know what they think about you already.”

“I’m not dating him,” I argue. “He’s just an old friend.”

“It doesn’t matter,” He says. “If someone sees you, you know what they’ll think.”

I don’t respond to that. Let him hold onto this fantasy that if I’m just careful enough things will get better. 

But I don’t think I can live like this. Constantly on edge. Hiding out forever. Caring what people think. 

It’s no way to live my life. 

It’s no life at all really. 

SS 12:34pm: _What do you have to lose?_

I meet him in an empty field on the west side of town. I thought he would beat me here because I had to wait until after dark and was in the library working through his third glass of wine. It was 9 pm before I made it out the door. But he’s not here. 

I don’t want to sit on the ground because that would absolutely ruin my trousers. And I can’t help but wonder if I’m trespassing. If someone will come out annoyed and this whole thing will somehow get worse. 

Basilton Pitch arrested for trespassing on private property, proves himself to be the scumbag we already thought he was. 

I’m about to leave when Simon taps me on the shoulder. He’s still wearing my jumper and he’s carrying what seems to be a very heavy duffel bag. I briefly wonder if he’s planning to murder me. Or if we’re going to commit a murder, but he pulls out a blanket, and spreads it out on the ground. 

He drags me down until I’m sitting next to him, and he doesn’t let go of my hand. 

“What have you been up to since school?” I ask. It seems ridiculous to make small talk when Simon Snow is holding my hand. It seems ridiculous that I don’t know. It seems ridiculous to me that I’ve spent years in the spotlight living ‘the dream’ and this is the happiest I’ve been in ages. 

“I didn’t go to uni if that’s what your asking,” He says. “I didn’t see the point. I’ve never been good in a school setting. I asked if I could help Ebb around the farm, so she took me on.”

I’m not looking at him, but I get the sense that he isn’t done talking yet. So I squeeze his hand. 

“Ebb died last year,” He says. “She was sick for a while and I...I should have seen it coming, but... I just didn’t. She left me her farm so I’ve been running it, but it’s much harder on my own.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is Bunce still around? Wellbelove?”

“No,” He says. “Penny moved to explore after she and Micah broke up. She found some guy in America. Sometimes they visit. Agatha went to California. I haven’t seen her since.”

“So who do you hang out with?” I ask. 

“The goats.”

He’s been alone. For a year. 

“Simon, surely you could...”

“Don’t.”

He squeezes my hand and I shut up. 

“Have you always written songs?”

“I guess,” I respond. 

“I didn’t know,” He laughs. “At school I didn’t know.”

No one did. I did my music outside of school. I didn’t really want people to know. It wasn’t something I wanted to share. 

Writing songs is like writing a diary. It’s like putting everything down everything you’re thinking even the bad. Releasing music is like your diary being shared with the entire world. 

At every step in my career I’ve wondered if it’s worth it. 

Maybe it wasn’t. 

“I don’t have any music left in me,” I admit. 

“What?”

He lets go of my hand and turns over to look at me. I look back at the stars. I wonder if they make up for the lack of light in my life. I wonder if anyone has ever seen stars this beautiful. I wonder if they’re a consolation prize. 

“I can’t...” I find myself at a loss for words. I never find myself at a loss for words. And then the words come all at once. “I can’t get it to come. I don’t know who I am without music and I can’t even play songs I’ve already written or songs I didn’t even write. I don’t know what to do. And I don’t know what this life is if I can’t write music. And even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. Music isn’t worth anything if no one hears it.

“But I’m out. I don’t have any left. There are no words left in me.”

“It’s not over,” Simon says. “Nothing is over until you say it is. You're not the opinion of people who don’t know you.”

“It is over,” I tell him. I’m not fighting. I’m just telling him. “There’s no going back. If I can’t write, I’m no one.”

“Firstly, fuck off,” He snaps. “Second, of course there’s no going back. Everyone knows you can only go forward, you numpty. Third, you’re Baz fucking Pitch. You are smart, funny, and a major pain in the arse. Even if you never write another song, even if you never get on stage again you are still you.”

“Snow, you don’t under-”

“What don’t I understand, Baz?” He growls. “Seriously, what don’t I understand? Why are you letting everyone else decide what you are?”

I don’t know. 

I’m still thinking about it as we walk back towards my house. I haven’t been talking much. He’s been babbling about the stars. I didn’t know he knew so much astrology. Maybe he made it up, I don’t really have enough background knowledge to fact check him. 

He walks me to the door and I hesitate before going in. I don’t want him to go. I want to pull him inside and drag him to my room. I want to tell him he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. I want to tell him...

“I should...” He trails off. 

It’s ridiculous. Like in the movies. When the character is fishing for an invitation in for the night. At the end of the date. They hesitate at the door and have to pretend they might not want to sleep together, but then one pulls the other in. 

“You should just come in,” I say. “Come on, it’s too dark for you to walk home anyway.”

I pull him inside before he can stumble out a response. It’s not like he’s going to refuse. I don’t know why he’s doing this, but I know what he’s doing. Or at least I think I know. 

I bring him to the kitchen. I grab a tray of leftovers from dinner. And go to my room. 

I don’t check to see that he’s following me. 

I sit at the foot of my bed, and he sits beside me. 

I wonder if knows what he’s doing to me. I wonder if he knows how badly I want him. I think he must know. 

When we’re finished with the food, I move the tray aside and I lean my head back against the end of my bed. Then I move again so that I can see him. He’s already staring at me. 

“Simon,” I say. 

And then he kisses me. 

When I finally pull back for air, he’s grinning at me. 

And looking into his eyes, it finally hits me. I can’t have this. 

I’ve been caught up in a fantasy. I can’t have this. I can’t have him. 

But maybe I can pretend, just for a moment, just for tonight. 

I take him by the back of the neck and pull him back into me. 

He’s still in my bed when I wake up in the morning. He’s already awake and he’s staring right back at me. 

“Good morning, darling,” He taunts. I immediately flush and turn away. Darling. I know it was a joke. I know. But he called me darling. 

He wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck. 

“Don’t you have goats to tend to,” I grumble. I’m not the best in the morning. Sue me. 

“One of the local teenagers covers the goats on Saturday mornings,” He says. “Even I need a morning off once in a while.”

I don’t respond to him, and he kisses the back of my neck. 

I’m in love with him. 

“Should we talk about this?” He asks. 

“Talk about what?”

He chuckles, “Baz, I can feel how tense you’re getting. You’re overthinking. Stop thinking.”

“Oh, just like you do?” I snap. 

He presses another kiss to my neck and I take in a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Snow, I just...”

He kisses my neck again and rubs his hands against my stomach. I take another deep breath. 

“Simon,” I say. “I can’t do this to you.”

“Do what to me?” He says. “I know what I’m getting into.”

“You don’t understand,” I insist. “If they find out, they’ll never leave you be. Every day will be hell for you. Or they don’t find out, and we spend the rest of our lives in hiding. We never go outside together. I can’t put you through that.”

“Stop making decisions for me,” He snaps. “I like you. No one else gets to decide that happens. I like you.”

I turn around in his arms so I can look into his eyes: his plain, boring, intoxicating eyes. 

I kiss him without thought.

I show up at his house uninvited. 

It’s pathetic. I couldn’t hold out any longer. 

He doesn’t have a doorbell so I just bang on the door until he opens up. He looks like he’s about to snap, but when he sees me, he grins. 

“Miss me?” He taunts. 

“Shut up,” I say as I push my way inside. I don’t let him retort before I push him against the door and kiss him. 

He pulls back before I can get caught up. 

“Baz,” He laughs as I chase his lips. “Look, I would love to continue this, but I’m making dinner and the pasta is about to be ready.”

I roll my eyes. 

“Come on,” He says. “There’s enough for you.”

He pulls me into his living room and pushes me down onto the sofa. The tv is already on. He’s got the great british bake off in the background I guess. 

He comes back with two heaping plates of pasta and I wonder about how much he was planning to eat tonight. 

“Are you sure there’s enough there, Snow?” I laugh. 

“Simon,” He corrects. “If you’re going to be my boyfriend, you’re going to have to call me, Simon.”

“Boyfriend?” I say. 

He rolls his eyes at me. 

“Look, I know you’re about to do the whole aloof ‘I don’t want to ruin your life and this is the noble thing to do’ act, but like can you just not,” He says. 

I scoff. 

“Seriously,” He says. He puts down his fork for a second and reaches out his hand like he’s making a business deal. “Boyfriends?”

“Simon,” I argue. 

“Aha!” He shouts and points into my face. “You did it again.”

I roll my eyes. 

“Simon,” I start again. “It’s not that I don't...like you. And it’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just...”

“It’s just what?” He says. “I know what I’m getting into.”

“No you don’t,” I argue. 

He doesn’t. He’s never been surrounded by the camera flashes. He’s never been screamed at or insulted by a crowd. He’s never seen an online discussion posts with opinions about how terrible he is. 

“You don’t know what it would be like,” I say. “You wouldn’t be able to step out of line without them commenting.”

“Why do you still care about what they think?” He asks. “Why can’t you just do something for you?”

“But it's not for the best,” I say. “For you.”

“I’m being serious,” He says. “I don’t give a shit. Let yourself have this. And if not for you. Let me have this. Let me have you.”

I don’t argue. 

“Basil, are you sad?” the my stepmother asks. 

“What do I have to be sad about?” I sigh. 

She’s been around me almost all my life. I shouldn’t treat her like she’s an idiot. She’s shown me nothing but kindness and support. 

“I don’t know,” She says. “You seem sad.”

“I’m not,” I say. 

“You know I read an interesting article about you the other day,” She says. 

“Yeah? What did it say?” I ask sarcastically.

“It said that you write incredible songs and that they have inspired people all over the world.” 

I don’t look up at her. 

“It said that sometimes good people make mistakes and sometimes we don’t know the whole story,” She says. “It said that you don’t have to explain yourself and that you don’t need to live your life just to please people.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I roll my eyes. “If you’re trying to inspire me or...”

“I’m not,” She insists. “I’m just saying.”

She leaves the room without continuing. 

“Simon,” I say at 3 am. 

I’m in his house, in his room, in his bed. 

He groans into my shoulder. 

“I know this is the kind of thing that is meant to go poetically unsaid, and it’s too soon to say it, and I don’t even know why I’m saying it...”  
I just need him to know. I just need him to understand. I need him to know I’m in this for the long haul. I need him to know that I want him more than any person. I need him to know that in spite of everything, in spite of the worst event in my career, this has been the best month of my life. I need him to know. 

“I’m in love with you. And I know that it’s too soon. And I know that this could ruin your life. And I know that everything is a complete shitshow. But I love you.”

“Where are you going?” My father asks as I put on my shoes at the kitchen table. 

“Out,” I say. 

“Do you really think that’s the best decision?” 

He doesn’t look up from his phone. I wonder when the last time he really even saw me was. I wonder if he’s ever seen me. If I’ve ever been anything other than a steady profit. 

“I hardly think it could get worse,” I argue. 

He sighs but doesn’t respond. 

“Father,” I say. “What happens if I don’t write another song? Or what if I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Basilton, you’ll write anothe-”

“No, but what if I don’t? Seriously.”

“Then you don’t,” He says. He finally looks up at me. “You can do whatever you want to do. It’s your life. I can’t stop you.”

He sounds exasperated and bored. 

“Everyone hates me,” I say. “They’re never going to see me the way they used to. There’s no guarantee they’ll ever leave me alone again.”

“Basil,” He interrupts. “You-”

“No, I need to say this,” I demand. “And you need to hear it. I don’t know if I’ll ever write any more music. I don’t know if I’ll ever perform on stage again. And I don’t know if I even want to anymore. I’m tired of just being a spectacle for people to throw insults at. I’m tired of being followed and manipulated. And I can’t go back, and I don’t really know if I want to. If I could fix this...well then I wouldn’t have ever realized that I wasn’t living a real life

“And I’m not just going to keep hiding because people are angry,” I say. “If I do that then they win. I’m going to live my life, and they can say what they want to say. I hope you can respect that.”

BP 6:30pm: _Meet me at the pub. 8pm._

SS 6:31pm: _People will be there._

BP 6:34pm: _Meet me at the pub._

I’m sitting in front of my piano. Simon Snow is asleep in my bed. 

It’s the first time in weeks that I’ve sat here and not felt empty. 

I place my fingers on the keys and I press down. 

_This ain’t for the best_

_My reputation’s never been worse so_

_You must like me for me_

_We can’t make any promises now can we babe_

_But you can make me a drink_

-Delicate, Taylor Swift

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!  
> Find me on Tumblr @awesomeaislin


End file.
